Small and Insignificant
by Talking Hawk
Summary: During ROTK, Merry struggles with feelings of being "small and insignificant" in the happenings of the war. No slash.


Small and Insignificant  
By Talking Hawk  
  
Author's Note: "Small and Insignificant" takes place in the "Muster of Rohan" chapter in Return of the King. All of the dialogue is from that chapter, and I suppose there are one or two plot-spoilers in this. I try not to give too much away though, so don't worry about me saying, "Oh, and yada yada happens to Gandalf, and blah blah blah happens to Gimli," or whatever. =) (I hate it when people do that.) Well, other than that, I hope you'll enjoy the story. It's my first LOTR fic for a long time, but I just had to take a reprieve this summer after my rather hectic junior year (all is well though, except that school's about to start again really soon!). I hope you're all doing great, and thank you for "staying tuned." Now, on with the show, and I hope you'll enjoy! =)  
  
". . .In such a battle as we think to make on the fields of Gondor what would you do, Master Meriadoc, swordthain though you be, and greater of heart than of stature?"  
  
Small and insignificant - those were the overwhelming feelings that suppressed the breath from my lungs as my lord spoke those steel-cold words to me.  
  
In the great history books, written in the foreign languages that Gandalf seemed to be so well versed in, I had no expectations of having my name scrawled within them. Perhaps the letters of my given moniker would appear somewhere in the section about the council in Rivendell in which I might be included in the list of names of the chosen Fellowship (though I seemed to volunteer for it more than I was asked for).  
  
They were only names to the world, after all.  
  
But I didn't care about that. People live and pass away, most of which never to be remembered by more than a handful - or even at all. The only thing that I cared about was that the people who I loved would remember how much I would sacrifice for them.if I were but ever given the chance.  
  
A lump formulating within my throat, I said with uncharacteristic self- restriction, "As for that, who can tell?" Then, demanding in an almost dream-like state, speaking as though I was an objecting man-child, "But why, lord, did you receive me as swordthain, if not to stay by your side? And I would not have it said of me in song only that I was always left behind!"  
  
I didn't care for the song itself; I only cared for Pippin in Gondor, and my friends clinging to some jagged mountainside in Mordor. If they wrote verse after verse of every stupidity within me, and that the song would shun me from all the world, I would still not care.  
  
The thing of it was that I would not be able to live with myself if I did not go.  
  
The king of the Rohirrim continued, speaking with underlying irritation; had I not entertained and amused him as I did, I might have met with the full brunt of his shortened nerves.  
  
"I received you for your safe-keeping." I felt as though an icy punch struck my side, unchecked. "None of my Riders can bear you as burden." The last word seared into my forehead, letter for letter, as though it would forever rest upon my weathered headstone.  
  
*B-u-r-d-e-n*. . .  
  
I was a burden. . .  
  
My eyes snapped open, quickly realizing that my lord's words had not reached their end. "If the battle were before my gates," he spoke in a somewhat softened tone, "maybe your deeds would be remembered by the minstrels." My heart sunk at this - the minstrels were as insignificant as I was, if not more so. I did not care for sonnets and poems; give me a horse and let me fight for my friends! As if in reply to my thoughts, he said, "But it is a hundred leagues and two to Mundburg where Denethor is lord. I will say no more."  
  
I gazed up into those cold grey eyes - once filled with friendship and hope in finding a use for myself in this war. Now I only found rejection with the best of intentions (which, as I felt, was the worst *kind* of rejection). My shoulders sagged forward in an involuntary bow; I admired the man and held him in the highest of esteem, but at that moment, I could not help but feeling that he had somehow failed me.  
  
I dragged my helplessly large feet about the campsite. As the sky was overshadowed by a brown sort of cloud, a cloud of despondency hung over my soul. I was small, but an apparently sizable "burden;" otherwise, why would the king send me from his side, where I had felt the most useful in the whole time that I had left the Shire?  
  
I had not done much as Theoden's companion, other than lighten his spirits, but at his side I felt a glimmer of hope. I had thought that he did not underestimate me, and in his hand I might find some sort of purpose for myself in the war - and in the world. However, I was a Hobbit - a "bag," as I was so tenderly nicknamed by Elfhelm later on - and not a warrior. Had I been taller, or stronger, or anything but me, I might have been some use to Pippin in this war. But, alas, I was nothing more than Meriadoc Brandybuck, without hope but direly in need of it.  
  
What hope is there in the hand of the King?  
  
What hope is there in the voices that sing?  
  
What hope is there in the sun to rise, or the moon to wane?  
  
What hope is there in an Elf and his Dwarf-friend?  
  
What hope is there that tonight will not be the world's end?  
  
Is there hope for two hobbits upon a firey mountaintop  
  
Or have they given up so soon as I?  
  
I stood in soundless astonishment of the words that have passed within my own heart; then, within it, grief began to swell. 'I have betrayed them,' I thought, aghast. 'My own thoughts have betrayed them. Would it have been me on that mountain, the others would not so soon give up on me.' Wallowing deeper into my guilt, a sudden thought struck me - even though I did not have the Ring, I was not without hope. The others had faith in me to do all that I could where I was, even if I was only "baggage" - insignificant to the world, but meaningful enough to my friends.  
  
'I will not leave you to the flames of war, Pippin,' I silently vowed. 'Nor will I give up on hope - though, now it seems, it has deserted me for a time.'  
  
Why what happened next occurred, I know not. Perhaps the being saw the stoop of my shoulders, and wished to be of some assistance. Or, what maybe is closer to the truth, the person saw a bit of myself within him - turned away and disowned by all Hope.  
  
Out of the murky darkness, a voice spoke into my ear, " 'Where will wants not, a way opens,' so we say," the person whispered, "and so I have found myself. You wish to go whither the Lord of the Mark goes: I see it in your face."  
  
"I do," I replied, without hesitation. There was something strange within this creature; nothing ominous, my heart told me, but something pointedly peculiar to the other Men in the camp.  
  
"Then you shall go with me. I will bear you before me, under my cloak until we are far afield, and this darkness is yet darker."  
  
"Thank you indeed! Thank you, sir, though I do not know your name," I said, my heart filling once more with the life-giving power of hope. What was the name, I wondered, that I owed it all to?  
  
"Do you not?" the being said more than asked, a note of amusement in his tone. "Then call me. . .Dernhelm." 


End file.
